


A Man Without Honor

by Arwriter



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Arthur Whump, Family, Father-Son Relationship, Found Family, Hurt Dutch, Hurt/Comfort, O'Driscolls - Freeform, Protective Dutch, Set sometime before canon, Violence, When things were good and Micah wasn't there, hurt Arthur
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-07-21 04:47:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19996093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arwriter/pseuds/Arwriter
Summary: Captured by O'driscolls, Dutch refuses to see an outcome where he and Arthur don't both make it home. But only one of them is needed alive.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back to Red Dead because Arthur is my #1 muse when it comes to whump  
> Chapters will probably be short for this fic since I'm still traveling but I'm almost home! Next chapter should be the usual length

All Dutch could hear was the ringing in his ears, joined gradually by cold laughter and threats, the words lost to the ocean of noise flooding the agony in his mind. 

The ground beneath him was cold, hard and unforgiving, and when he tried to move, his muscles screamed in protest. It took a moment to realize, to become aware enough to understand anything, but his arms were held firmly against his back, wrists tied tight together. 

He was on his stomach, face pressed into wet grass, dirt staining the corners of his mouth, threatening to spill into his mouth as he struggled to breathe, his chest on fire. 

“You hear that?” 

“You back with us, Van der Linde?” 

The voices were too loud, taunts and sneers looming above him, the men too gleeful, taking joy out of his pain. 

Something slammed into his side, knocking what little air he had out of him, Dutch momentarily blinded by white-hot pain shooting through his whole body. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to remember, trying to pinpoint where he was and where the unbearable pain had come from. 

He’d been out riding when it had all come crashing down. He’d been out with Arthur, and--

Dutch’s eyes flew open, the world coming back in a sickening blur, everything too loud and too bright, the pain making him nauseous, and he could only silently hope he wouldn’t throw up in front of these men. 

Arthur had been with him. Arthur had been right there at his side when they’d heard the swarm of approaching horses, voices, threats and yells followed quickly by gunshots. 

He hadn’t seen the younger man go down. He couldn’t even remember falling off his own horse, or when the men had managed to grab him. He must have hit his head, agony pulsing in constant dizzying waves. 

_ “Arthur…”  _ It was barely a whisper, more like a pathetic wheeze he could barely hear over his own racing heart. Dutch dug his nails into the mud, fighting to pull himself up. “Arth--” 

Something pressed against the top of his head, slamming his chin back to the dirt. A glimpse of stained jeans told him one of the men was keeping him down with his foot. 

“Look at that,” a voice above him cooed. “You worried about your bitch, are you? Don’t worry pal, we’ll find him.” 

The boot pressed harder, and Dutch frantically struggled to catch his breath, bile rising in his throat, panic only worsening at the man’s words. Arthur wasn’t here. There was no way to know if that was a good thing. 

He’d be ok. Arthur had a habit of making it through the worst. 

Dutch tried to remember if anyone else had been riding with them, if anyone would think to come looking anytime soon. 

“Come on,” one of the men said, and the pressure was finally lifted. “Tie him up over there while we wait for the others.” 

Someone grabbed the collar of his shirt, yanking him backwards and dragging him through the mud, and there was no way for him to fight back. He barely had the strength to lift his head from his chest. 

Dutch was slammed against something solid, distantly figuring it was an old fence post or a small tree, hissing in pain when someone pressed a rope against his chest, tying it securely around his middle, keeping his tied arms held against his back. 

When he was done, the man moved around to face him, crouching to his prisoner’s level, and Dutch raised his head to meet his eyes when his captor spoke. 

“Now you be good and wait here, and  _ maybe,  _ if your boy ain’t already dead, we won’t make you watch us shoot him in the head. Got it?” 

Dutch didn’t respond, trying to even out his breathing, to ignore the dread bubbling up to the surface. Arthur would be ok. He’d make it out, and he’d bring help. 

He turned instead to the other surrounding men, heart sinking at just how many there were. His view was limited, but he counted five standing near the tree, all cocky and relaxed. And that wasn’t counting the ones who had gone after Arthur. 

They were in a clearing, big and spacious, smoke from campfires wafting into the air, the place heavy with the smell of stew. He’d been brought to an enemy camp, and there was no telling how many men he was up against. 

“I asked you a  _ question,”  _ his captor snapped, and Dutch turned back to him, expressionless. “Boss wants  _ you  _ alive. Ain’t said nothing about Morgan.” 

Despite himself, Dutch smirked, unable to fight against the satisfaction that came with the man’s uneasy frown. “You have no idea what you’re getting into, boy.” 

They wouldn’t get to Arthur. They wouldn’t  _ touch  _ him. If they did, none of them would live long enough to see daylight. Dutch would make sure of that. 

The man’s face flushed red, eyes narrowing. He opened his mouth to respond, only to be cut off by distant yelling, men crashing through the bracken. 

There was a smile thrown at Dutch, the man moving to stand. “Colm will be happy. That’s all that matters to me.” 

Something in Dutch’s stomach twisted, dread only growing when the distant yelling grew louder, and he realized just how angry they sounded. When he was finally able to make out the words, everything came screeching to a stop. 

_ “We got him!”  _

The chorus of angry men was nearing, and Dutch decided there had to be at least ten men coming their way. 

From the other end of camp, he was able to make out figures pushing their way through the bracken, a hoard of furious men all clustered together, shouting obscenities and wordless cries of triumph. 

They were all surrounding something, pushing, shoving, and spitting, and as they moved closer, Dutch was just able to see the stumbling figure in the middle.

Arthur’s panicked eyes were frantically searching the crowd, fighting uselessly, stubborn as always, as he was yanked forward by the rope around his neck. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, writing in airports is torture  
> I'm slightly dead but writing keeps me alive

Arthur was barely visible in the ocean of men at his sides, all of them pressing too close, too many to count, laughter and voices too loud to even try making out. 

The O’driscoll’s hands were on him, Dutch helpless to do anything but watch as they grabbed and pulled at his arms, pounding and shoving at his back, kicking ruthlessly at his wobbling legs. 

The rope around Arthur’s neck dragged him forward like a dog on a leash, keeping him frantically working to keep moving, all he could to avoid falling to the mercy of the noose. 

And then one of the O’driscolls swung at Arthur with his gun, the handle of the weapon hitting the younger man in the back of the leg. He cried out as he lost his already wavering balance, the O’driscolls pulling away as he fell into the mud. 

“Arthur!” Dutch’s voice was drowned out by the gleeful cheers of the surrounding men, laughter rising as Arthur fought to scramble up from the ground, eyes squeezing shut when someone yanked on the rope around his neck. 

The man with the gun reared back and swung again, Arthur crying out again when the weapon hit him in the back, over and over again, Dutch left to scream uselessly for them to stop. 

Others joined in, Arthur curling in on himself as best he could, Dutch yanking furiously at his bonds as the younger man was beaten and kicked into the mud. 

_ “Stop it!  _ You’re going to kill him,  _ stop!”  _

Nobody listened, and he doubted Arthur could even hear him. He was terrified, hurting, with no way to know he wasn’t alone. 

The rope yanked him forward, Arthur’s eyes widening as he choked, scrambling and failing to pull himself forward, hands still tied tight in front of him as he stumbled. 

A few of the O’driscolls grabbed the collar of his stained shirt, pulling him from the ground and practically throwing him forward, the man who had been in front of Dutch moving to greet the crowd. 

Arthur was shoved down to his knees, a boot against his back pushing him all the way back to the mud, the rope held tight to keep him still. 

“Bastard killed two of our men,” one of the O’driscolls snarled, followed quickly by an uproar of agreement, the leader of the camp sending Dutch a smug glance over his shoulder. 

“We should just kill the fucker now,” another man said. “Colm wants Van der Linde, not this piece of shit.” 

The leader didn’t even need a moment to consider, easily swayed by his own savage, bloodthirsty ways and the swarm of excited cheers from his men, already pulling his pistol from his belt. 

He knelt down, grabbed a fistful of Arthur’s hair, shoving the gun against his temple. 

Dutch’s whole world went red, everything silent, the thought of a world without the boy he’d raised suddenly too real, too imminent. 

Arthur couldn’t die because of a feud Dutch had refused to let die. 

“Let him go!” he demanded, wishing his voice was stronger than the frantic begging it had been reduced to. “I’ll cooperate, I’ll do whatever you want, just  _ don’t  _ kill him!  _ Please.”  _

The gun didn’t move, the man’s finger still hovering over the trigger, but he turned to look at Dutch, head cocked, regarding him almost curiously. 

Arthur was finally looking at him too, face covered in blood, registering the older man’s presence for the first time. 

He couldn’t speak, not with the way the rope pressed against his throat, but he mouthed Dutch’s name, the first spark of hope ignited in his eyes, some of the terror fading. 

Dutch could only wish he had the same confidence in himself that Arthur always seemed to have in him. 

The head O’driscoll smiled. “Doesn’t look like you have much of a choice, Van der Linde.” 

“You think my men won’t find out what happened?” Dutch challenged. “Whether I live or die, they’ll hunt you down and kill every last one of you. You  _ know  _ that. But let my friend live...and- and I swear, none of your men will be killed. No matter what happens to me.” 

It was a blatant lie. The gang would take their vengeance whether or not Dutch and Arthur made it out of this, and he didn’t plan on lifting a finger to stop it. 

But the O’driscoll was still watching him, and Dutch wasted no time continuing. 

“I’ll come quietly. Anything Colm wants, I’ll do it without a fight. I  _ swear.  _ Just...just let him live.” 

The O'driscoll was still watching him, and Dutch turned his gaze to meet Arthur’s eyes, left with the awful realization that if his words weren’t enough, he wasn’t sure what else he could do. 

Arthur could be ripped away in a second, the man he’d called a son for so many years torn away right before his eyes. 

And then the gun was pulled away, and the world came rushing back in an awful blur of light and noise. 

“Alright,” the O’driscoll agreed, ignoring the protests of the crowd. “What’s the point of killing him now, anyway?” 

Without warning, he grabbed the rope from one of his men and started forward, Arthur’s eyes flying open as he struggled to even make it to his knees. 

Two more O’driscolls grabbed his arms and hoisted him up, shoving him forward, the three men leading him to where Dutch was securely tied to the old tree. 

Arthur was once again thrown back to the ground, just out of Dutch’s reach, and the head O’driscoll moved to throw and tie the rope over one of the overhead branches. 

But the branch was too high, Arthur letting out an awful, strangled choke as the rope squeezed and pressed against his neck. Dutch fought to rush forward, ignoring the white-hot agony seeping into his bones. 

“Arthur,” he tried, wondering if the younger man could even hear him over the frantic gasps. “Arthur, get up. Come on, son, I’m right here. Get up, Arthur, you can do it.” 

Dutch couldn’t breathe around his panic, forced to watch Arthur struggle desperately in the dirt. But whether the younger man had heard him or not, he just barely managed to sit up, perched on his knees, his whole body wracked with tremors, eyes now glassy and unfocused. 

“There you go, Van der Linde,” the O’driscoll said, snapping Dutch back to reality. “You move, you talk, you piss me or my men off, we punish Morgan here. Anybody comes for you, the first thing I’m doing is putting a bullet in his head. Got it?” 

Dutch nodded, dread sinking deep into his aching chest. “There won’t be any trouble.” 

The O’driscoll nodded, apparently satisfied, turning to grin at his men. He turned to leave, slapping Arthur on the back, scoffing when he cried out in alarm, nearly falling face-first into the mud again. 

The O’driscolls didn’t go far, spreading across the overcrowded camp, weapons held at their sides, leaving their prisoners helplessly tied to the tree. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 𝑯𝒆𝒚!  
> I've recently started working on writing outside of fanfiction now that I'm done traveling and have a bit more time. I've been wanting to do original work for a while now, and I would love to have a couple of Beta readers if anyone is interested!   
> Thank you for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again for the wait! My inspiration has been all over the place so many new projects have been started

“Arthur?” 

The younger man hadn’t moved for hours, the dawn having steadily approached while Arthur slept, the sky a light, pastel pink, the dawn painted with long gray clouds. 

He’d somehow managed to find a position that didn’t tug too tightly on the rope that he could doze off in, and it almost felt like blasphemy to wake him. Dutch was far from ok, but Arthur had clearly drawn the shorter straw. 

He was still breathing- Dutch had constantly checked to make absolutely sure, refusing to let his eyes close as the night came to an end, all too aware of how helpless it would leave the both of them if he were to fall asleep. 

So he’d sat, stiff against his tree, pulling useless at his bonds, frantic mind racing and coming up blank. 

A part of him was grateful Arthur was asleep. As soon as he came back to the world, Dutch would have to rebuild the rest of his barricades and lie, go back to being the pillar of strength that would get them out of this. 

But the other part, selfishly, needed the other man awake and alert. Proof he was truly still here. He needed to know that he was ok, that he was still at Dutch’s side. 

They wouldn’t die. Not in an O’driscoll camp, and not by Colm’s hands. They’d gone through too much, build too much to have it end like that. 

But escape, as reluctant as he was to admit it, seemed impossible. He’d known Colm had more men, but he rarely saw this many clustered in one space. 

A single, well planned surprise attack could take them out easily. Done right, and Colm would lose a large portion of his ever growing army. 

But they’d clearly lose the element of surprise. If the O’driscolls were smart, they’d be waiting for a rescue attempt. Dutch had less men, and more on the line. 

And Dutch had been around long enough to know when a man was lying. If the camp was attacked, or if an escape attempt went wrong, there was no doubt in his mind that Arthur would be the first casualty. 

Colm would prefer to have them both alive. A grudge this old, he’d want to put an end to the feud on his own. 

But Dutch had been the one to kill his brother. Dutch had been the one to feel the loss of Annabelle. When he was dead, it would end. He was the one Colm wanted. 

Arthur was leverage. To the O'driscolls, he was just another casualty. Important only for causing pain, for getting what they want. 

The thought made Dutch sick to his stomach, and it was nothing short of a miracle he hadn’t lost the fight against his nausea yet. 

Arthur couldn’t die. Not because of this, not because of a war he wouldn’t let end, a hurt he’d never been able to let go of. 

He’d promised Arthur a better life. He’d promised him safety. Picked up a terrified boy off the street and taught him to trust again. To be loyal. 

And look where that loyalty got him. 

_ “Arthur,”  _ he tried again, firmer this time, regretting it the minute Arthur opened his eyes. 

The younger man jumped, nearly losing his balance, eyes going wide as the rope pushed against his throat, briefly leaving him to flail and choke. 

“Arthur!” Dutch hissed, glancing warily at one of the uncaring O’driscoll guards. “It’s just me, son. Try to relax, come on.” 

It took a moment, Arthur gasping as he finally steadied himself on his knees, blinking rapidly, gaze wandering, gradually resting on the older man, head cocking slightly. 

“Dutch?” It was quiet, and maybe it was just Dutch’s panic, but it sounded almost desperate, like he wasn’t quite sure he could trust his own eyes. 

He smiled, hoping it hid just how uneasy he felt. “You doing alright?” 

A pointless question, but one Arthur seemed to understand Dutch’s need to ask. He nodded, coughing with a poorly concealed wince. 

Angry looking bruises were already forming on his face, muscles spasming from the strain, and Dutch could only imagine what his beaten body looked like beneath his clothes. 

“You look comfortable,” Arthur said, and it took Dutch a moment to recognize the dry humor in his tone, the small smile he wore through the pain. “You think they’d let us switch?” 

Dutch couldn’t bring himself to match it. “I wish. Believe me, I do.” 

The atmosphere turned grim after that, Arthur’s attempt to keep the air light shattered with a single, sincere sentence. 

“O’driscolls?” he asked, and Dutch nodded, solemn. 

“You remember what happened?” 

Arthur’s brow furrowed, and Dutch wondered if the younger man’s head was pounding as agonizingly as his own. 

“We were out hunting,” he said slowly, eyes drifting to the ground, clearly struggling to recall clearly. “They ambushed us...threw you off your horse and I...shit, Dutch I’m sorry I didn’t realize they--” 

Dutch shook his head, regretting it as soon as the new spark of pain hit, worsening his nausea, quickly pressing himself further against the bark of the tree. 

“You think they’ll come looking?” Arthur asked after a moment, Dutch looking over to the younger man as soon as he was able to move again without the risk of the whole world going dark. 

He’d told Hosea they’d be gone a few days at least. It hadn’t taken long for the O’driscolls to find him, a few hours at least. If they were gone long enough, eventually someone might get worried, and John or Bill would be sent out to hopefully find some kind of trail to follow. 

But that could still take days, weeks even if they were particularly unlucky. 

He and Arthur were in no shape to fight their way out of this, even if they managed to- by some impossible miracle, get free of their bonds. 

And the way the head O’driscoll had been talking, and the way the other men had been looking at Arthur, they didn’t have that kind of time.

O’driscolls were angry, bloodthirsty, furious at a world that had been nothing cruel to them, put in a position of savage power by a man who didn’t give a shit about their lives, only their strength and cruelty. 

“They’ll come,” he promised, surprising himself with how flawlessly confident he sounded. But Arthur had never been hard to convince. His trust had always been unconditional. “This ain’t how it ends.” 

And Arthur, as always, seemed to believe him, settling back against his bonds with a quiet flinch, eyes shifting upward as they waited. 

  
  


Dutch couldn’t remember falling asleep. 

He’d made a silent promise to himself to stay awake, to stay vigilant. Arthur needed the rest more than he did, and they couldn’t both be left defenseless and vulnerable. 

But there he was, eyes snapping open to a piercing headache and the all too real sound of Arthur’s screams. 

It took a second to focus, for everything to come flooding back into something he could understand, the light, color, and noise like knives to his stinging eyes. 

There were two men beside him, their attention focused solely on Arthur, cold laughter and taunts wafting into the air. 

One of them stood behind, a hand on the noose tied around Arthur, repeatedly tugging like a boy with a dog. His friend stood over him, Dutch’s vision swimming into focus just in time to see his boot slam against Arthur’s chest. 

“Stop it!” 

The O’driscolls barely spared Dutch a glance, the man with the rope tugging ruthlessly until Arthur was pulled onto his back, eyes widening as his air was cut off. 

The second man, with a long, purposeful look back at Dutch, stepped forward and stomped down on Arthur’s stomach, over and over again, the blows only seeming to get worse when Arthur lost his fight and cried out, an awful, panicked, strangled sound. 

And then his eyes met Dutch, suddenly reverted back to that small, abused child he’d taken from the street, the boy he’d given a home and- slowly- a purpose. 

There was one more kick, this time the heel of the O’driscoll’s boot digging painfully into Arthur’s stomach, before the hold on the rope was finally loosened, and Arthur scrambled back up to his knees, trembling and gasping for breath in horrible, ragged wheezes. 

The man turned back to Dutch with a sickening smirk. 

“That’s just a warning, Van der Linde,” he said, he and his friend already moving away. “I suggest you keep doing as you’re told.” 

And with that they left the prisoners alone, Dutch powerless to do anything against his tree, Arthur’s eyes frozen, glued to the ground, hunched over as he struggled to take in a proper breath. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's 3am again


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not dead! As always, I hope you enjoy!

“Get up.” 

Dutch barely heard the words, hardly registering the venom in the threat, vaguely wondering if he’d been shoved underwater.

He’d fallen asleep again, despite his fight to keep his eyes open, to stay alert and awake so Arthur could rest as easy as could be expected, and he was beginning to wonder if he’d been hit harder than he’d initially thought. 

“I said get  _ up.”  _

Something slammed into Dutch’s side, the pain blinding, white fire spreading through his body, and his eyes snapped open, followed by an awful wheeze. He forced himself to raise his head, skull pressed against the tree, blinking rapidly until the O’driscoll camp came back into focus. 

And what he saw made the sickening nausea, the dread settled deep into his chest, return in an agonizing flash. 

Arthur had been cut down from the tree, the noose still hanging loosely from his neck, two O’driscolls pressed against his sides to keep him just barely standing on unsteady feet. 

One of them, the same man who had spoken the last time Dutch had been lucid, held Arthur’s arm in a bruising grasp, free hand holding a silver knife against the younger man’s jaw, close enough to draw blood. 

“You with us, Van der Linde?” he asked, smirking at Dutch’s obvious distress, Arthur unnervingly silent against him. “Be a shame to get any more blood on my jacket.” 

Dutch swallowed and tried to meet Arthur’s eyes, but the younger man’s gaze had slid to the ground, face a ghostly pale and coated in a sheen of sweat. He was probably using up all his energy to imply stay standing, even with the O’driscoll’s less than gentle support. 

“Time to go,” a familiar voice chimed, the head O’driscoll moving up beside Dutch, too cheerful to be planning anything good. “Nothing’s changed. You misbehave,  _ he _ pays for it.” 

He jerked a chin to an unresponsive Arthur, throwing Dutch a grin before moving to tug at the ropes. He clenched his jaw as the bonds were finally loosened and removed, his whole body feeling numb and detached from the sudden lack of pressure.

At this point, it was impossible to tell how long it had been. Days or weeks- at this point, Dutch couldn’t really find it in himself to care. They just needed to hold out a little longer. Help would come. 

“Where are we going?” Dutch asked, watching as the ropes were thrown to the dirt, trying to buy time as he worked to figure out if he could get his legs to support him. 

It was clearly the wrong thing to stay. 

The head O’driscoll stepped back, just enough to give Dutch a perfect view of one man rearing back and slammed a fist into Arthur’s stomach, burying it into his gut. 

The younger man groaned, barely audible, knees buckling as the O’driscolls roughly hoisted him back up, weakly spitting up blood onto the ground. 

Apparently asking innocent questions fell under the category of ‘misbehaving.’

Arthur still didn’t look up, didn’t meet Dutch’s eyes, didn’t give any sign that he was ok, that he was still holding on like he’d promised he would. 

Every instinct was screaming at Dutch to call out, to let Arthur hear his voice, to let some promise dripping with concealed lies float off his tongue. But they were watching him, waiting for him to repeat his mistake, and Dutch kept his mouth shut.

“Let’s go.” Before he could even consider protesting, there were hands hooking under Dutch’s arms, yanking him to his feet, tightening their hold when he stumbled against his will. 

He was distantly aware of Arthur being dragged forward beside him, the world nothing more than a blur, colors and lights too dull to make out properly. 

There was a wagon at the edge of the camp, big and brown, the doors held wide open and surrounded by O’driscolls, men sneering and chuckling as their prisoners were dragged closer. 

There were hands on his back, shoving him forward, his head colliding with something hard, and everything around him tilted to black.

“Dutch?” 

The voice was nothing but a tiny whisper, barely scratching the surface of the haze he had been put under. But it awoke some of the pain the darkness had managed to lock away, and he squeezed his eyes shut. 

_ “Dutch.”  _

Arthur? Confusion briefly overshadowed pain. He sounded so young, so  _ scared,  _ and Dutch was momentarily blinded by that fierce sense of protection he’d felt all those years ago, the feeling that had never truly faded since he’d found that half-starved orphan on the street. 

“Dutch,  _ please.”  _

And that was all he needed to hear, all he needed to pry his eyes open and pull his head from the ground, forcing himself to ignore the agony coursing through his veins. 

Everything was dark and closed in, the turning of wheels and pounding of horse hooves echoing through the thin air. But the small streaks of dim light filtering in through the tiny cracks were enough to make out what was right in front of him. 

The space was small, the back of the wagon cramped, uncomfortable, and cold. Arthur was just a few inches away, leaned against the flimsy wall on his side, face almost unrecognizable with how much blood clung to his skin. 

But his eyes were pleading, terrified, worried for Dutch’s safety while he was the one in the worst condition. It made Dutch’s eyes sting. He didn’t deserve Arthur’s loyalty, and Arthur didn’t deserve to be here. 

Arthur didn’t deserve any of this. 

No matter how many times he told himself that their way of life was ok, no matter how many times he told the men following him that there was a better future ahead, he had never been able to stop his own doubts from creeping in, making a home in the dark part of his mind. 

But Arthur had never questioned, never wavered, even if he knew just how unreasonable the promises were. He had never been loyal to the ideas, to the dreams, he’d always been loyal to  _ Dutch.  _

“I’m ok,” he said, knowing it was what Arthur needed to hear most right now. The least Dutch could do was remind Arthur the loyalty went both ways. It always would. “We’re ok, Arthur. We’ll be ok.” 

Arthur made a sound suspiciously close to a whimper, Dutch’s heart breaking in two when the younger man averted his gaze, ashamed. 

“It...it ain’t looking so good, Dutch,” Arthur said, voice small and hoarse. Dutch didn’t miss the small, forced smile that accompanied his words. They hadn’t broken his spirit yet. 

“I know.” Usually, his mind would be whirling at times like this, blocking everything else out to come up with a plan to ensure everyone’s safety To ensure bloodshed. Revenge. 

Now, it was quiet. Blank. All that mattered was right in front of him. 

He scooted closer, both prisoner’s hands still held tightly together, wrists wet and sticky with blood from the rope. 

Careful not to jostle either of their injuries, Dutch maneuvered himself until Arthur was leaned against his side, head rested on the older man’s shoulder, rasping, shuddering breaths the only noise Dutch had to focus on. 

It was all he needed. It meant they were both still alive, and they could still find a way to get home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait! There's been a big schedule change so everything's kind of hectic right now. I cope with stress by writing, but unfortunately, that means starting a bunch of new projects at once in the little time I have because I'm a 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯.   
> But I have no plans to stop writing no matter how chaotic my schedule gets for a while, so don't worry!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus concludes my longest hiatus so far. Hopefully it won't happen again, I've missed you guys so much!

It took Dutch a moment to realize the wagon had stopped. 

When the pounding of hooves silenced and the turning of the wheels gradually began to cease, he didn’t give it another thought. It had to have been hours since they’d been thrown back there with little light and no sense of direction. Right now, he couldn’t let himself trust his senses. 

But then he heard the shouting, the surrounding footsteps just outside the thin walls, and Dutch’s head snapped up, eyes widening in the darkness. 

Arthur was still pressed against him, having gone too still for Dutch’s liking, some patches of his clothes still wet and sticky with blood. He was still breathing, but he needed help. They wouldn’t find that if they made it to Colm. 

“Arthur,” he whispered, moving to cup a hand around the back of the younger man’s neck. “Hey. You with me?” 

A small grunt was his only reply, but Dutch was just able to make out Arthur’s eyes fluttering open, glassy and unfocused, blinking sluggishly. 

“There you go.” He shifted, making sure he was supporting most of Arthur’s weight. “Just stay awake for me, ok?” 

Arthur’s voice was small, a weak, breathy promise. “...sure, Dutch.” 

It was far from comforting, but Dutch supposed it was the best he could hope for now. Arthur wouldn’t give up, not when he was so desperately needed. Dutch knew him too well to ever believe he would. 

The first gunshot rang out without warning, followed immediately by something heavy slamming into the side of the wagon, Dutch tightening his hold on Arthur when he jolted. 

There was yelling spiraling into the air, furious, hoarse voices Dutch didn’t recognize or understand, threats and insults drowned out by more gunfire, bullets lodging themselves in the wagon’s wood. 

“Dutch?” 

“Stay down,” he commanded, fighting to keep the panic out of his voice. A loss of what little control he had was the last thing either of them needed. 

He didn’t recognize the voices outside. They weren’t his men. But it was still someone attacking their captors, attacking O’driscolls, and Dutch allowed himself to hold onto the spark of hope forming in his chest. 

It felt like an eternity, Dutch doing his best to keep both he and Arthur as close to the ground as possible, shifting to shield the younger man from sprays of bullets, squeezing his eyes shut when it only seemed to grow louder and louder. 

And then, just as quickly as it had started, the noise stopped, dying down to a painful, breathtaking silence. 

There were suddenly more footsteps, drawing nearer and nearer to the back of the wagon, and Dutch carefully scrambled to sit up, Arthur still limp and silent, slumped against his side. 

The door swung open, letting in the blinding sun, the sudden burst of light like a knife to Dutch’s skull, and he flinched away from the shadows in the opening. 

“The hell do we have here?” 

It wasn’t an O’driscoll, wasn’t one of the men who had forced Dutch to watch as Arthur was nearly beaten to death, but the voice was far from friendly. 

When Dutch’s eyes adjusted to the flood of sunlight, he cautiously turned his head to meet the stranger’s eyes, scooting forward to plant himself protectively in front of Arthur. 

“We don’t want any trouble,” Dutch said, wincing at how hoarse and broken his voice was. He held out his bound hands, squinting to see the newcomer’s expression, to get an idea of what they were up against. 

“We just-” two more men moved to join the first at the wagon’s doors, and Dutch nearly faltered. “-we just want to go home. We have no quarrel with you.” 

The first man cocked his head, a small smile reflecting something Dutch couldn’t quite pinpoint spreading across his face. 

“You boys look like you’ve had a rough couple of days.” 

Dutch forced himself to smile, forced himself to relax. “Good thing you found us. You get them all?” 

The man glanced behind them, his men doing the same. Dutch could already smell the blood wafting into the air. 

“Looks like it. Why don’t you come on out?” 

Dutch hesitated, glancing down at Arthur. It was nearly impossible to make out anything with the wagon’s lingering shadows, but the younger man’s eyes were closed, and he was shivering violently against Dutch’s side. 

“Arthur,” he tried, voice gentle, glancing warily at the watching men. “We’re gonna move, ok? Do you think you can stand?” 

There was no real response, just a quiet, pained groaned, and as much as Dutch hated to admit it, he hadn’t been expecting much more. His exhaustion was fading in favor of resurfacing panic, head clearing to see just how weak Arthur had grown. 

He draped one of Arthur’s arms over his shoulder, ignoring his own pain spiking in his gut as he worked to stand, dragging them both towards the back of the wagon, the men stepping aside. 

“Need help?” the stranger asked, and Dutch stubbornly shook his head. “You sure? He don’t look so good.” 

“He’ll be fine,” Dutch said, swinging his legs over the side, carefully pulling Arthur forward. His breath hitched, hands clutching tightly at Dutch’s shirts, but his eyes still wouldn’t open again. “I just need to get him home.” 

“Doubt he’ll make it that far,” another man said, Dutch pointedly ignoring the comment as he got Arthur’s legs out from under him. “We’re a long way out.” 

He lowered Arthur back down to the ground, keeping a steady hand on his back, stomach twisting when he saw the blood dripping from his mouth. He needed help. 

But, taking a look at their surroundings for the first time, he could see that the man was right. There was nothing but trees and dirt for what seemed like miles, everything eerily quiet and abandoned, motionless O’driscolls sprawled across the bloody clearing. 

One of the men stepped closer, meeting Dutch’s cautious gaze, eyes void of emotion, bending down to cut away the ropes around his wrists. 

“He’ll make it,” he said, peeling back Arthur’s shirt to get a look at just how bad his injuries were. He swallowed, finally able to see just how many bruises littered his body. “He’s strong.” 

“Even the strongest men die,” the first stranger said, tone something akin to sympathy. It disgusted Dutch beyond belief. “A quick death might be mercy for someone who doesn’t know how to stop fighting.” 

Dutch kept on ignoring the words, moving to pat Arthur’s cheek, left to silently pray for a reaction. Arthur’s brow furrowed, quietly whimpering in pain, but he kept his eyes shut. 

“He’s going to be ok,” he said again, refusing to consider anything different. “He just...he just needs help. If you have any medicine, we can--” 

The click of a gun made him freeze, fear seized him by the throat when he felt firm hands grasp his shoulders. 

“What are you doing?” Dutch demanded, lurching forward as he was pulled back, reaching frantically to try to grab onto Arthur as he was pulled away. “What are you  _ doing?  _ Let me go!” 

The first man was standing in front of him, blocking his view, moving to crouch down to his level. All of it, the fear, the confinement, the helplessness, it was all hauntingly similar to the O’driscoll camp, the dread a punch to the gut. He’d been stupid to think they were safe. 

“Don’t look,” the man said, too close, too calm. “It’ll make it easier.” 

“He didn’t do anything to you!” Dutch wanted to scream, but all that came out was a panicked, shaky croak. “Don’t touch him, he’s  _ hurt!  _ Please!” 

“He’s suffering,” the man said, and the kindness in his voice made Dutch want to vomit. “We can’t travel with him, and I doubt he’ll survive the night if we try to move him.” 

“He’ll be--” 

“He  _ won’t.”  _ The man moved closer, his eyes the only thing Dutch could see. “You’ll be ok. We’ll take you back to your family.” 

“He  _ is  _ my family!” Dutch pulled ruthlessly at the arms holding him back, throat tightening, the pain threatening to shove him back down to oblivion. “I  _ need  _ him! Please,  _ please!  _ I can get him help, just  _ don’t  _ kill him.” 

The man hesitated, eyes moving from Dutch to the man with the gun waiting behind him, shoulders dropping as his eyes finally settled on the ground. 

“I’m sorry.” 

_ “No!”  _ Dutch lunged forward, the man scrambling back, finally allowing him to see what was happening. 

Arthur was curled up on his side, the sun illuminating just how much blood stained his face, how ugly and black the visible bruises were. His eyes were halfway open now, still empty and dull, staring ahead at nothing. 

One of the strangers stood over him, hardly sparing a struggling Dutch a glance, gun leveled with Arthur’s head. 

“Arthur!” And Dutch managed a scream, dread overpowering agony. “Arthur, look at me! Look at me!  _ Arthur!”  _

He needed Arthur to see him. He needed to pretend that this was going to be ok. Arthur’s last moments couldn’t be spent alone, cold, afraid and confused. He couldn’t die disobeying an order. 

_ “Look at me!”  _

Something broke at that, and Arthur blinked, whimpering again as he moved his head, confused panicked eyes locking onto Dutch as the gun above him was cocked and readied. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again for the extra long wait. I've been dealing with a lot of stuff and then I got super sick so I haven't had enough time to write.   
> I'm slightly dead right now but I love you all


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter again, but I'm still alive! Thanks for reading!

“Wait a minute.” 

And just like that, the rest of the world flooded back, everything that wasn’t Arthur hitting Dutch like a wave, time speeding up when the gun wasn’t fired, when his whole world wasn’t ended with a single bullet. 

The man stepped forward, Arthur’s eyes moving from Dutch to the stranger, fighting to hide his uneasiness, the younger man terrified and hurting. 

The man crouched in front of him, shooting out a hand to cup Arthur’s jaw, holding his face still as he leaned closer, eyes narrowing. 

“Don’t touch him!” Dutch lurched forward again, rage spiking. “Get your hands  _ off--”  _

“This is Arthur Morgan,” the man said, and Dutch thought he saw a spark of clarity in Arthur’s eyes. “I’ve seen your poster all over town, son.” 

Dutch’s heart sank, the man turning around to face him. “And Dutch Van der Linde? You boys look better in the drawings.” 

“We’ll go with you,” Dutch said, no hesitation, no thought, just desperation. “We’ve both got a large bounty on our heads. You can have it. Just let him have a chance. That’s all I ask.” 

The man raised his brow. “The poster said dead  _ or  _ alive.” 

“You know they’d prefer alive,” he countered. “Keep him alive, and I won’t fight. Kill him, and two of these boys will be dead before you get a bullet in my skull.” 

He’d take his chances with a cell and a public hanging. It was risky, but the trip would buy them time. The rest of the gang could still find them and put an end to everyone who thought they could touch Arthur and walk away. 

If they were lucky, the lawmen might even offer some of the treatment Arthur so desperately needed. They often wanted to keep their prisoners alive until their execution. 

All he needed was for this man to see reason, to take pity,  _ anything.  _ Anything that didn’t end with a gunshot, with Dutch losing one of the few things the world had been generous enough to give him. 

If they got out of this, if they made it back home to their family, Dutch would find a way to put an end to this. He wouldn’t let a pointless feud with Colm O’driscoll hurt the ones he loved ever again. 

The man was still watching him, and Dutch could have sworn his gaze softened, briefly moving to look back at Arthur, nodding to his friend who quickly put away his gun. 

“He’s not your family,” he said, starting towards the wagon. “He’s just a man who kills for you. Because he thinks he owes you.”

“He’s loyal.” Dutch wobbled on aching knees, left to talk to nothing but the man’s back and Arthur’s slipping focus. “Because I’m all he has.” 

There was so much more he wanted to say, countless things he needed Arthur to hear. But not now. Not in front of these men. Not when everything they’d built could come undone at any second. 

The man, clearly the leader of the small group, began fumbling with the reins of the frantic horses, waving a hand to his awaiting men. 

“Get our new friends on a horse,” he ordered. “Mr. Van der Linde, see if you can get your boy on his feet. He’s your responsibility. Don’t let him slow us down.” 

“He won’t.” Dutch was already moving to Arthur’s side, dropping to a crouch, reaching out to gently take the younger man’s jaw in his hands.

The men were wise enough to give them a few moments of space, moving to their horses to rummage around in their saddlebags, unwinding their lassos and bringing the horses closer. 

“Arthur,” Dutch called, soft but urgent, forcing back a relieved sob when Arthur’s eyes, tired but aware, blinked sluggishly and met his gaze. “Hey. You still with me?” 

Arthur swallowed, and Dutch tried not to focus on the blood that still stained his lip. He gave a small nod, still quiet, still confused and hurting. 

“Talk to me, son. Come on. Tell me what’s wrong.” 

He felt stupid asking- it might have been faster to list the things that  _ weren’t  _ wrong, but he just needed to keep Arthur talking, wake him up enough to find his footing. 

Arthur sucked in a breath, whole body going stiff and rigid. “Think I...thinks I broke something, Dutch.”

“Yeah,” Dutch agreed, lowering himself further, draping Arthur’s arm over his shoulders. “Those O’driscolls really did a number on you.”

Arthur swallowed again, eyes now wide and filled with nothing but heartbreak and sorrow. “You wouldn’t...you wouldn’t wake up, and I- I thought--”

_ “Hey.”  _ Dutch dropped his arm, moving to cradle Arthur’s face with both hands, leaning in to make sure the younger met his gaze, hoping his confident facade was enough to fool him. “I’m ok.  _ We’re  _ ok. We’ll be home soon, and Hosea will get you fixed up. Alright?” 

Arthur was staring at him, listening, a slight frown tugging his lips. Broken, bleeding, and bruised, and he was still able to see through Dutch’s lies, still willing to believe and go along because he knew it was what Dutch needed. 

All Dutch had done was bring death and chaos, torn lives apart, and twisted it into a story of redemption and family. Men were willing to die for him, for his grudges and his wants, because they thought it defined them. 

Because they were family, and family fought together. Family died together. Dutch had chosen his family, chosen Arthur as his son, and there wasn’t a scenario where only one of them made it home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished the first chapter of my original story  
> I don't know what to do with it! But I'm excited!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's actually alive!  
> I know it's been 8 years I'm so sorry

It was like Arthur had been ripped from his own body, floating aimlessly in the sweltering air, skull pounding ruthlessly like there were cold, vicious hands trying to rip his mind apart. 

The pain made him nauseous, stomach roiling, agony spreading through each and every one of his bones, sinking into his skin, pulling and prying like a barrage of tiny knives, endless and painful. 

He could barely swallow, the simple motion sending a new wave of pain and pressure through his neck and chest, breath catching in his throat each time he tried, leaving him gasping and shuddering. 

Dutch wasn’t touching him anymore, the loss of contact making everything worse, the confusion gradually setting in as the minutes turned to hours, and Arthur kept trying and failing to pinpoint exactly where he was. 

He couldn’t move his arms, blurry eyesight able to identify the rope wrapped tightly around his middle, another holding his wrists in front of him. He thought it rather pointless. Even if he was free, he wouldn’t have been able to do much. 

He was on a horse, the saddle unfamiliar, the ride far from gentle as it jostled each and every one of his aches. But he was alone. There was no one pressed up against him, keeping him still and upright. He was left to slouch, chin nearly touching the horse's mane, tilting dangerously as they traversed the dirt slope. 

He could hear voices around him, senses slowly but surely coming back to him, unfamiliar strangers speaking dull and quiet, all of them surrounding them closely. 

O’driscolls? He thought he remembered being put in a wagon, followed quickly by an onslaught of gunshots, of blood and fear and…

Dutch. He’d been with Dutch, watching the fear and panic and helplessness in the older man’s eyes, a gun held to his head. 

The panic overtook him in an instant, clutching at his throat, suffocating him as he shot up, doing all he could not to cry out against the worsening pain. He doubted he succeeded in the slightest to hide his discomfort, but dignity was the furthest thing from his mind. 

“Dutch!” he called, surprising himself with his own voice. He hadn’t expected it to work at all, ragged and broken as it was. “Dutch--?” 

He broke off, as he’d honestly expected, with a pathetic wheeze, his body’s punishment for the unexpected outburst, chest constricting, lungs seizing as they begged for air he could no longer get. 

The world, already blurry and unfocused, began to spin, tilting dangerously, and something bitter and metallic rose in his throat. 

“Jesus,  _ stop!”  _ A voice, achingly familiar, began to call, frantic and panicked. “He’s going to  _ fall, _ stop!” 

He appreciated the concern, probably would have been much more appreciative if he could be sure the voice was even real, but it was far too late for any bit of warning to do him any good. 

In one horrible second, the saddle was no longer beneath him, and the ground was rushing up to greet him, his side hitting hard in an explosion of pain and firey agony, spots dancing in front of his eyes, and he tried to blink away hot tears forming in the corners. 

Arthur rolled from his side to his back, purely against his will, any bit of movement just making it all worse, groaning when it felt like his bones were being ripped from his skin one by one. 

He thought he could hear footsteps, too loud in his ear, too close, and Arthur held very still, silently begging they wouldn’t touch him, that whoever it was could just leave him here until he went blissfully numb. 

“Mr. Morgan.” 

Apparently not, and it was all he could do to not groan aloud. That wasn’t Dutch, wasn’t John, Hosea, or even Bill. It was a stranger, likely a man who had held a gun to his head, and Arthur had been left vulnerable.

But he forced his eyes to stay open, willing himself not to shiver when the blurry figure of a man knelt before him, grabbing Arthur’s collar in his fist, dragging him to a sitting position. 

The tiny whimper that escaped was the least of Arthur’s worries, but it made his face burn. 

“Boss told you not to slow us down,” the man snarled. It sounded like he was underwater, distant and muffled, but it was easy to hear the gleeful cruelty in his tone. 

Arthur couldn’t help but flinch, eyes squeezing shut when the man raised his fist. 

But the blow never came, and the hand in his shirt was suddenly being ripped away, the man’s presence gone. When he risked opening his eyes, his assailant was being tossed to the ground, a second stranger now standing before him.

“We need him  _ alive,”  _ he spat to the man struggling to find his footing. “We don’t beat defenseless men.” 

He turned back to Arthur, who could barely meet his gaze, blinking rapidly just to keep himself away, shuddering violently without any sign of stopping. 

“Forgive him, Mr. Morgan.” The second man didn’t bother crouching down to Arthur’s level, but his voice was significantly calmer, less bloodthirsty. “You know how eager men can get.” 

He didn’t respond, not even sure he could if he wanted to, pins and needles still dancing along his throat, mouth wet with his own blood. It didn’t stop him from pulling uselessly at his bonds, flashing what he hoped was an intimidating glare at the man standing above him. 

“Excuse the restraints,” the man said, easy and calm. Arthur didn’t trust it for a second. “It’s for everyone’s safety. Including yours.” 

Arthur was fairly certain that if his arms had been free, it would have stopped him from falling off of his horse, but arguing would get him nowhere. He forced himself to swallow, hating the way it made him gasp, and pushed himself to speak. 

“Where...where’s--?” 

“I’m here, Arthur.” 

It was too far away to be of any immediate help if this man decided Arthur was more trouble than he was worth, but the voice, clear as day, was all he needed to let himself relax. Dutch was here, he was alive. 

They were still together. They could still be ok.

“I’m right here,” he heard Dutch say. “Right here, Arthur. We’re ok. These...kind men are...taking us to the nearest town. We’re getting you some help.” 

If he could, Arthur would have laughed. He hadn’t lost  _ that  _ much blood. These weren’t O’driscolls, torture and instant death weren’t in their future anymore, but he knew bounty hunters when he saw them. 

It was better than Colm, he supposed. Anything was. 

“Sure, Dutch,” he muttered, words slurring. But there was a laugh from the older man, a bit hysterical maybe, but relieved all the same. Arthur briefly wondered how long they’d been traveling, how long he’d been unaware and unresponsive. 

“We’re almost there,” the bounty hunter said, and if Arthur didn’t know better, he could have sworn the man was trying to comfort him. “Didn’t think you’d last this long, Mr. Morgan.” 

He turned away, leaving Arthur shivering and hurting on the ground. He’d have to be heaved up to his feet and thrown back on the horse eventually, he knew that, but he’d give anything for just a few more moments to catch his breath, to calm himself down, to bask in the knowledge that Dutch hadn’t left him alone. 

Apparently, the bounty hunter seemed to understand, turning to one of the watching men Arthur couldn’t see. 

“Get Mr. Morgan some water,” he said. “Can’t have him keeling over on us. Then we’ll keep going. Should get to town in the next few hours.” 

Getting to town would raise new questions and concerns, the trouble of being thrown in a jail cell and scheduled to hang, but that was a problem for another time. He didn’t have the energy to focus on that right now. 

Dutch was awake and alert, he’d come up with something. If he hadn’t already. He’d have a plan, as he always did, and Arthur would do whatever he needed to ensure e didn’t die in vain. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again about the decade long wait, guys. I've missed you all so much but life has been crazy and stressful lately. But I have a bit of a break so I can finally write and catch up on sleep!


End file.
